


are you f***ing sorry??

by shootsharpest



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Football | Soccer, M/M, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16809910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootsharpest/pseuds/shootsharpest
Summary: An AU where Baz and Simon's rivalry began because Baz hit Simon in the face with a football, tried to say "I'm so fucking sorry" and "Are you okay?" at the same time, and ends up mincing his words.





	are you f***ing sorry??

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after tweeting about this concept, based on the story about high school soccer players that went around. Happy Snowbaz Month!

It’s my first year at Watford, and my first football match after a long training period. Despite the fact that I’m focused on the game, it’s hard not to notice him. He’s sitting in the front row, next to his best friend, bronze curls catching the light of the sun. He’s the Mage’s heir, my supposed enemy, my roommate. Simon bloody Snow.

And he’s here, making a fool of himself cheering at the top of his lungs for the Watford team as we face off against this year’s American exchange students. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he’s here; Snow makes it a point to go to almost every Watford event with Bunce. Even so, I manage in a quick eye roll before the next play begins. 

We’ve managed to score a few goals by the time it happens. In all fairness, it’s  _ partially _ his fault for being so damn… distractingly loud. It’s  _ partially _ his fault that I’m distracted enough to lose focus on how hard exactly I’m kicking my pass to Barclay.

And so, it’s  _ partially _ his fault that the football overshoots its mark, smacking directly into his freckled face. Snow falls backwards, almost in slow motion, landing with a  _ thud _ against the metal bleachers, and Bunce is immediately springing up to lean over him, shouting his name. 

The war, the rivalry, the prophecy,  _ everything _ is thrown out of my mind in an instant as I jog over, hop the short fence (too short to be practical, clearly), and make my way over to where he’s lying collapsed between rows of seats. I can see the shock on Bunce’s face, the blood on his face beneath his nose, which looks unnaturally crooked--I’m reasonably certain it wasn’t always like that. I know I should say something. There’s a hundred pairs of eyes on me at this moment, and one of those sets is Bunce, fierce behind her thick-lensed glasses. 

_ Are you alright? _ I think I should ask, and then, sounding suspiciously like the boy I’ve just hit,  _ I’m so fucking sorry. _ But of course, of  _ course _ , for all the years of elocution classes I’ve already had, luck is not on my side. I--and half the student body--hear myself blurt it out.

“Are you  _ fucking sorry _ ?”

My words are a jumble, and there’s no time to correct it before Snow, looking up at me with shocked, already-misty eyes, begins to cry. Not the respectable sort of crying, though--this is full-on blubbering, and it’s so embarrassing to see that I almost forget to be sorry. 

(Almost. But I scowl down at him anyway.)

Then, Bunce slugs me in the arm with a surprisingly strong force, glaring as she tugs Snow back to his feet and has him pinch his nose. They walk back towards Mummer’s House, speaking lowly, as I’m left to wonder what the fuck just  _ happened _ .

Things are much more tense between Snow and I after the match, which is fine. I never expected us to be friends, after all, and if anything it seems to have cemented the same idea in his own mind. That’s fine. I’m not here to make friends, especially not with him. The sooner he knows that, the better.

* * *

It’s my seventh year at Watford before the subject even comes up again. Almost seven full years of plotting, of arguing, of keeping up appearances. It’s exhausting, always quipping at him, snapping when he asks a simple question, wash, rinse, repeat. And after the whole ordeal with the numpties and the coffin, I can’t help but feel (more strongly than usual) like things would be easier if I just… stopped.

So I do. I drop the pretense, I drop the sneering every time he looks my way, I drop the sarcastic retorts. At first, he responds with understandable confusion, then apprehension. He takes up following me around again, from practice to class to the catacombs, when he thinks I don’t notice. 

(I do. Of course I do.)

It’s a few weeks before he seems to realize I’m not  _ actually _ plotting something. It’s almost too easy to tease him about the first time he walks into the room and greets me with a, “Hey, Baz.” But I don’t say anything other than a small hello back, and the room lapses into a for-once comfortable silence. It’s after dinner, and he’s laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, drumming some sort of rhythm on his stomach with two fingers. His tie is askew like it always is after school, and there’s no way I’ll be able to manage keeping my focus on this reading with the way the sunlight streaming through our window is casting the shadows of his eyelashes across his cheeks. Out of spite, I try anyway for a few minutes, and fail.

I really need to get out of here. This silence isn’t comfortable anymore, because all I want to do is fill it with words, and I don’t exactly trust myself to talk to him like this, like friends. It’s not something we’ve ever really  _ done _ . So I stand up, grabbing a fistful of clothes from the drawer, breezing into the bathroom. When I emerge, Snow is still lying on the bed, but his eyes are tracking my movements. I’ve grabbed my football from beneath my bed and made it to the door before he speaks up.

“Baz?”

I hum.

“Are you headed to the pitch?”

“I am,” I turn back, hand on the doorknob, and ignore the urge to make a quip--I wonder if that feeling will ever really go away. 

“... Can I come? I haven’t really gotten to… play before.”

I wasn’t expecting that. He can probably tell by my expression, as my eyebrows shoot up nearly to my hairline. But perhaps even more expected to both of us are the words that slip out next.

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Do you want me to change my mind?” It’s not too far out of line from my usual brand of speaking to Snow, but there’s a hint of humor behind it. I’m teasing him, but not in a cruel way, and that might just be the oddest part of this whole situation.

The walk to the pitch is quiet. The weather is pleasant, and the sun is just starting to set. He looks gorgeous like this, all warm skin and bronze curls and dark moles. He’s rolling his sleeves up on the walk, tie long-forgotten on his bed. Aleister Crowley, he has nice forearms.

“So,” he finally breaks the silence. “How do we do this?”

“Well, the first thing you need to know is that you can’t use your hands.”

He groans, and pouts adorably. “Well,  _ duh, _ I know that! I meant, how do you play two-person football?”

I place the ball down on the grass, positioning myself across from him. This is, perhaps, the most innocent situation I’ve stood opposing him in. “I’ll kick it to you, and you’ll try to get it past me. Head for the goal. Sound good?”

“Yeah, okay, I can do that,” he nods, and widens his stance a bit. I take that as the go-ahead and gently kick the ball towards him. He’s clumsy--of course he is, he’s Simon Snow--but he manages to keep a good pace with the ball, and I give him a little bit of a headstart before I take off after him. It’s not difficult to catch up, and I slip my foot between his to punt the ball off-track, and he all but  _ yelps _ , laughing as he changes his course to try to beat me to the ball. Somehow, I find myself laughing too, letting him get there first. Snow cheers as he regains control, tossing a grinning look over his shoulder at me, and I feel suddenly breathless--not from the effort of running.

Snow lines up to make a shot at the goal, and although he kicks at an unusual angle, the ball hits the back of a net with a small swish, and he beams. 

“Yes!! Take that, Pitch!”

“Lucky shot,” I chuckle, and we fall into surprisingly easy rapport. The game continues through the rest of the sunset, and I still go a bit easy on him, our shirts sticking to our backs with sweat and our breathing growing heavier as we rack up goal after goal. It figures he’d be competitive with this, too. We’re laughing almost the whole time. It actually feels quite nice.

By the time the moon is in full view, we’ve lost count of our goals. He doubles over, panting after chasing me halfway across the field, and collapses in dramatic fashion on the grass, arms and legs akimbo and chest heaving. As I approach, I can see he’s still smiling. I let the ball bump gently into his leg and he laughs. Snow pats the grass beside him, and I find myself lying down beside him, eyes on the stars and mind racing with the realization that surely,  _ surely _ this is a dream. I’m not sure how long we lay there catching our breath on the pitch before he says my name so softly I almost think I imagined it.

“Baz?”

I hum, again.

“Do you remember your first match?”

I snort. “How could I forget? I scored the winning goal.”   
  
“I know,” he continues. “I heard from Agatha, because I wasn’t there. You know, because you  _ broke my nose _ .”

I wince. Of course I remember that, all too well.

“And then--what was it you said? ‘You sorry, bastard?’”

“‘Are you fucking sorry,’” I correct softly, and Snow bloody  _ laughs _ , because this really is a day full of surprises.

“That was it! Man, Penny was so mad,” he tells me, rolling onto his side. I do the same. His nose never quite straightened out from when it broke in first year, I can tell from how close we are. The crickets in the distance are drowned out by the blood I apparently have enough of to roar in my ears. His bangs are sticking to his forehead, and I’m reaching up to gently push it back. My fingertips brush his forehead and those maddeningly blue eyes flutter shut. I can see each eyelash fanning out across his cheeks, the freckles and moles dusting his skin, the quirk of his lips, and I can’t tell if my ability to see in the dark so clearly is a blessing or a curse right now. I almost forget that my fingers are still in his hair as he sighs. 

“Baz,” he whispers again, and open his eyes. I’m too floored to even hum this time, caught in his gaze. I feel almost cornered somehow, like he can see through me completely just after one little touch, but I’m not one for backing down. Not as his lips twitch into a smile again. Not as he shakes his head incredulously. Not even as he inches a bit closer to me (although my breath does hitch a little--I doubt he can hear that). 

“ _ Baz _ .” Again. It’s a murmur, a question, a spell, all of those things combined, and something completely different, and I find myself with the overwhelming urge to find out how it tastes, somehow. 

In all fairness, it’s  _ partially _ his fault for looking at me so damn softly. It’s  _ partially  _ his fault because he shifts himself so close. But it’s also partially my fault for the fact that I find myself leaning in to close the rest of the distance. 

And it’s definitely  _ all _ my own stupid fault for the fact that, instead of meeting his lips, my nose bumps uncomfortably into his own.

He stares at me, mouth open in surprise for a moment, and then a laugh bubbles up from his stomach. I try to fix him with a little glare, ears and cheeks burning embarrassingly, agonizingly red in shame, but I know I’m unsuccessful. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could do magic without a wand, because all I want right now is to just disappear.

“Baz. Basil.  _ Baz. _ ”

“What, Simon?” I snap. I’m going to have to sleep in the catacombs for the rest of my time here. I’ll have to sneak food from the kitchens. I’ll have to go into the bloody Mage Protection Program.

“... Are you fucking sorry?”

My thoughts grind to a halt and my eyes open, Snow’s looking at me with the cheekiest, most shit-eating grin. I shove him, scowling, and then fist my hands in his grass-stained shirt, pulling him in close. He doesn’t even flinch. 

“You called me Simon just now,” he breathes.

“In your dreams, Snow,” I murmur against his lips, and the rest of the world falls away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on Twitter @shootsharpest if you wanna talk more Snowbaz uwu


End file.
